


primrose

by redundants



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Hemospectrum References, Sadstuck, Troll Aging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 08:45:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14541024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redundants/pseuds/redundants
Summary: Living longer than the average person may seem like a blessing, but it's more like a curse for Kanaya Maryam.





	primrose

**Author's Note:**

> omg finally i've gotten to write some rosemary !!

You don't start to notice until it starts to become too late.

You've always noticed everything about Rose Lalonde, from the way her pale blonde hair bounces when she runs, to the way her lips part when she blows apart a dandelion, staring adoringly at the fluffy seeds as they float on the wind. You notice the gasp of childlike excitement that escapes her lips whenever you bring her home something, even if it's as simple as a package of lipstick.

She doesn't like lipstick too much, but she knows that you do. So she takes it anyway and thanks you with a kiss on the cheek. Her kisses are soft and sweet as sunshine in the spring.

At first, you don't need to worry about your different aging schedules. At first, you're both seventeen, and you both can match eachother's paces. The pitterpatter of your feet are just as synchronized as the beats of your hearts. You truly are soulmates.

Her eighteenth birthday comes in a flash, but you still don't need to worry. You're still seventeen, and she still grins at you and plants one of her famous kisses on your forehead as you wrap your arms around her shoulders, hugging her in tight and not letting go. You don't ever want to let go, but it's inevitable. You just need to savor the time you have left.

Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.

The color of jade green is becoming a curse to you, because no matter how much you wish and you wish to age with her, to stay the same height as her and to look the same as her, you can't. No matter what you do, she will always bleed candy-red blood while you'll always bleed green. Green, green, green. It's ironic, in a sense, that green is the color of growth when you're not growing at all.

Your conversations are just as eloquent as they've always been. She isn't any different on the inside, but you can't help but notice the way that her dimples start to diminish. You notice everything about Rose.

"Kanaya, dear, do you think that this dress is too flashy?" she holds up a bright orange dress, with a picture of a sun on it. It reminds you of the days when she was a god tier, when she would never age. You wish she would become one again, but you don't say that out loud. 

Instead, you say, "I think it will look beautiful on you, whatever color it is," and her smile rewards you. You could sunbathe in that smile.

Jade green is such a different color than orange.

Twenty-two and twenty-three pass speedily by, and you just smile and push away your worries. Humans do live to a decent age anyway, but it pains you more than you can express to remember that when you die, you will be completely alone.

But you don't say that. You don't want to ruin the radiant happiness she's seemed to possess ever since you moved in with her with your foolish worries. You're Kanaya Maryam, the woman who resurrected the troll species singlehandedly. _Get a grip,_ you tell yourself firmly, and you just grasp her hand in your own and twirl her around. Her giggling is music to your ears, and her orange dress floats and flies in the wind as you two dance to a song that will end far too soon.

Twenty-four. Her birthday is still a wonderful event for her, but every time you see her blow out the flickering candles on a birthday cake that you made for her, the corners of your lips can't help but fall a bit. She doesn't notice. Instead, she scoops up some of the jade green frosting on her finger (the cake just didn't look right without color) and tastes it, grinning broadly. You're not great at cooking, but Rose Lalonde loves your cooking nonetheless. You shake your head fondly.

You could mix together toothpaste and rocky mountain oysters, throw it on a plate with a mountain of A1 sauce, and she would still tell you how delectable the dish was.

It's just a Rose Lalonde thing, you guess. You like Rose Lalonde things.

She's reached the milestone of twenty-five now, and she throws a party in celebration, but the most enjoyable part of the day isn't the festival with all of your friends. You have centuries to laugh with your friends, but you only have years, weeks, hours, minutes with Rose. You find the evening to be much more interesting.

The two of you lay in the backyard of your small, cozy home, and you both point and gasp in wonder as the constellations form in the sky.

They aren't as pretty as the stars lying in her unusual, violet eyes.

"Look, Kanaya! There's your sign! Virgo!" she gazes up in awe at the stars, and traces a line from Spica to Chi Virginis. It's so nice to see her let go of her stoic exterior, and she does it often in front of you. You can't help but to fall in love with her even more every single day that passes, and you know it'll be your downfall. You can't bring yourself to care.

She throws an arm around your stomach and presses her face into the groove of your neck, her legs wrapping around one of yours. "I love you, Kanaya." she says, as if it's the most casual thing in the world, but your heart still skips a beat. It's been over ten years since the two of you met, but you still admire everything about her. You still idolize the tentacleTherapist, even while she's draped over you, planting kisses along your jaw.

"I love you too, Rose."

The two of you fall asleep like that, wrapped in eachothers arms under the stars, and you savor every hour of it. For all you know, every hour could be her last.

Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. The years pass by, and every time you blink it seems that she's another year older, another year wiser, another year closer to her death and another year closer to your inevitable loneliness for however long you'll live. It all seems pointless if Rose won't be there.

Twenty-nine, and thirty. It spooks you terribly, knowing that she's a third of the way through her short human lifetime. You're not even eighteen yet. You continue to be seventeen, and you're starting to hate that number almost as much as you hate your jade green blood.

You notice everything about Rose, so when your eyes spot a small wrinkle around her eyes and a crack in her full, pink lips, you can't help but frown a little. Her hair is paling at a rate that seems far too fast. You haven't studied very much on human lifespans, but you know that she's coming to what humans call 'middle aged'. 

You're still a teenager. You still have an excuse to be young and dumb, even though you both have been alive for the same amount of years. It puzzles you, but then again, everything about Rose puzzles you in the best way possible. You can't put your worry and stress aside anymore. She's going to be gone soon.

When you open the door to your house, a fragile primrose flower held inbetween your claws, you see Rose sitting at her computer. For a second, you don't want to disturb her. She just seems so peaceful.

But the wrinkles are still there on the back of her neck, and you don't want her to rest and lay at her computer when she could be out with you, cherishing the seconds that you two have left.

You tap her on the shoulder and hand her the primrose. She takes it and examines it, and the soft smile that appears on her lips just seconds later makes your insides turn into a puddle of goop. You couldn't be any more in love with her if you tried, and that just makes it hurt more. "Primroses," she clarifies, resting a finger on a waxy leaf of the flower. "Represent everlasting love." her eyes are the sunset and sunrise of your every day. You'll never find another sunrise beautiful again.

She stands up and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. You smile.

Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five years old. She complains about the ache in her back sometimes, and she constantly needs to brush her hair to remove the loose hairs that fall out onto the ground. They're an unsettling shade of gray. 

She still keeps her hair cut to just past her ears, the only remaining outward sign that she's still the teenage Rose that you love. And you still love her, but she's slipping through your fingers too fast.

Everything goes by too fast.

By the time she's fourty, her wrinkles are especially prominent on her formerly flawless face. You're still seventeen. Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen. There's no aging for you, not for a long time. The thought of growing old without Rose makes your heart snap in half and fall to the ground.

The two of you go and get a pedicure, and she laughs and smiles as you remind her of things you did back when you were young. When she was young. You remind her of your first date, when she fell down the stairs right after kissing you and nearly took you with her. You remind her of your first real conversation, and you remind her of her guide she wrote to Sburb. 

You don't let anyone paint your nails (you prefer to do it yourself), but you enjoy watching her smile at the purple layers of paint covering her nails. You compliment her and she thanks you, but it doesn't provoke a smile out of you, not like it used to when you were both in your teens, carefree and happy. The years pass by all too fast. You can't stand the thought of missing your Rose, so you pick primroses in the garden outside your house and present her with one every day. She keeps every one of them in a vase in her room.

The next twenty years pass in a blur. You blink, and suddenly, she's sixty years old and you're talking to a human doctor about the pain in her legs, who suggests that you put her in a nursing home, at least temporarily until she can heal up. You reluctantly oblige, but not before checking that you can visit her daily.

You need to visit her daily.

If you thought it was bad before, it's so much worse now. Everything is so much worse. It's a Monday and she's seventy-eight years old when you walk into her room in the nursing home and smile at her, a fangy grin that you haven't let escape in months.

Rose just frowns at you and tilts her head to the side, her completely gray head of hair falling over her face. 

"I'm sorry, dearie, but do I know you?"

Your heart nearly stops. You wish it would stop.

Two years later and you're standing by her hospital bed, clutching her hand as the heart monitor slows at a frightening pace. The anticipation is absolutely killing you. You're terrified, more scared than you've ever been before, even during the Sburb session. Beep. Beep. Beep. One more mountain of red sparks on the heart monitor and it all goes flat.

...

Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and it's been one hundred years since your Rose's head fell flat on a pillow.

You approach her grave and kneel down next to it, placing a flower on the dirt where she was buried. You know that the flower will be blown away during the night by the howling winds, but you'll just come back tomorrow with another one.

After all, the flowers you lay on her grave are primroses. 

And all love involving roses is everlasting.


End file.
